Page 23 of The House Beyond the Dunes

Kyle’s house isn’t like the other homes. Its stark lines are an outlier among the homey beach cottages painted in whites, grays, and even bright blues. The cottage’s blunt angles are stunning and could easily adorn the cover of an architectural magazine, but it doesn’t quite mesh with the rolling dunes or the sea oats bending in the wind. The dwelling was designed to catch attention.

Pulling into the driveway, I park next to Kyle’s Range Rover. As the engine rumbles, I lean over the wheel and allow the first deep breath I’ve taken in the last half hour.

When I look over at the Range Rover, I picture us both smiling as we sat in the front seat yesterday morning.“Can’t wait to get you inside,” he says as he kisses me.I guess the Range Rover will be a detail for Kyle’s estate or Devon.

I shut off the engine and stare up at the three-story house with a wraparound porch and tall windows. It’s a house designed to catch thelight, and on a cloudy day with the windows covered, it loses almost all its charm. It’s now just an unwelcoming four-thousand-square-foot box.

Out of the car, the cold wind slaps. I slam the car door and look up the stairs to the porch. I might not remember the fall, but it’s stored in my mind somewhere, and it’s screaming danger. I hurry up the stairs. My fingers are numb when I press in the code. 674510. When the lock turns, I’m relieved, grateful, and a little worried. I rush inside into warmth and close the door.

Drawn shades cast deep shadows that telegraph this house is unwilling to receive visitors. Only the hum of the heating system echoes out of the darkness. I flip on the entryway light, but the glow does little to dispel the gloom looming in the house. The air is ripe with pine-scented cleaner.

I’ve heard stories of spirits lingering near the spot of their death, especially when it’s a violent, sudden passing. I understand how a soul would get confused. Breathing one second, gone the next.

I had lain at the bottom of the stairs, unconscious, close to Kyle’s dead body for five, maybe ten minutes. Does that mean his spirit is now attached to me? Will he always be lurking close, wondering how we fell?

“Shit, Lane,” I mutter. “Don’t go there. Stick to what you know.”

My first memory after I regained consciousness is of a voice reaching into the darkness and reverberating around me.

“Ma’am, can you hear me?” The man’s voice echoes in the distance. “Ma’am!” Cutting, direct, all business.

“Yes.” My whisper is hoarse. My first instinct is to sit up.

Strong hands roll me on my back against a body board. All my muscles scream. “Do you know where you are?”

If he’ll let me sit up, I’ll figure it out and tell him, but he’s holding me flat on my back. “No. Yes. Maybe.”

“Where are you?” he demands.

I scramble to piece together the bits of information floating in my head. Kyle ... “Beach house. Kyle?”

“Can you move your arms and legs?” the man asks.

I wiggle fingers and toes, but when I try to move my left leg, a searing fire radiates up and down the nerves. “My hip.”

Hands move over my body in a clinical way. “It took the brunt of your fall. But I don’t think you broke any bones.”

“She’s been unconscious since I arrived,” another man says. I don’t recognize the voice. “That was about fifteen minutes ago.”

Those missing minutes are my first reference to time. I focus on the face looming over me. Deep wrinkles circle blue eyes. White hair. Tanned skin. “Kyle?”

Red and blue lights flash on the walls, but there’s no sound of a siren.

“What’s your name?” the white-haired man asks.

“Lane. Lane McCord.”

“Lane, my name is Barry. Can you tell me what day it is?”

“Is Kyle okay?”

“What day is it, Lane?” He’s pressing to determine if I have a head injury.

“Friday.” I’ve answered a question, now it’s his turn. “Kyle?”

“Ma’am, he’s dead.”

I turn my head to the right. The slight move shoots lightning down my spine. When I refocus, I see Kyle lying in a crimson lake. I close my eyes, regroup before opening them again.

---